Reichenbach Darkness
by ObsessiveCumberbatchDisorder
Summary: The fall was hard for John. He has rejoined the army after a fog took London. John is sent back to find survivors. Will he find the one that he wants to save the most?
1. Chapter 1

_This is after Reichenbach. John has decided to join the army again because his PTSD is clear and his shoulder is better. A few weeks after the fall a black fog came to London and engulfed it. Few people came out alive, and those who did had become insane. They had kept whispering to themselves about how the fog had told them that they were too boring to play "his" game. No one who has ever gone in the fog has ever come out. Luckily, John had been too overwhelmed to stay in London after the fall and had gone to Essex for the weekend. Now the fog is spreading around the world, no one is safe._

* * *

The sound of gunfire accompanied the screams of terror and pain. All around him, all John saw was death. He ran to help his friend Murray, who had just been shot in the chest.

"It's the fog!" Dimmock called from what sounded like far away but was actually really close to him. The fog did that to you. It distorted sound and images, one second you could be stitching up a patient and the next minute they started to spew blood from their eyes. John knows, it's happened to him before. He looked up to see it, the cloud of nothingness. If you concentrated hard enough you could see the figures of the demons that lurked inside. A small whisper sounded in John's ear. _Hello John-y boy. Why don't you come in and play?_ John knew that it was the fog talking, but it had sounded like someone he knew. _Shut up John_, he told himself, _He's gone and he's not coming back, so stop imagining him._

"John, we have to go!" Dimmock's voice distorted over John's ears. The wind had started to pick up and it was whipping sand into John's eyes. He couldn't leave his friend.

"I'm not leaving Bill!" John shouted over the wind, his voice bouncing over the empty expanse, the black cloud billowing closer. He looked back down at his friend and started to stitch up his wound. It wasn't too deep, it would heal. Dimmock pulled John away from Murray. John started thrashing and screaming for him to let go, but as he was being pulled away from his friend he witnessed as the cloud engulfed him and he heard an ear-piercing scream. John looked away, it was his fault, if only he had been quicker.

* * *

Back at the camp, John was sitting on his cot, his head in his hands. He sighed and rubbed his face, sitting here wouldn't help anything. He rummaged through his jacket until he found the worn picture of him and Sherlock. In the picture Sherlock has his I-Just-Solved-A-Case smirk on, his arm wrapped around John's shoulders. John had been ecstatic that he would have a picture of his friend.

Sherlock didn't like taking pictures. It was only because he they had just solved a quadruple murder that he had agreed to the photo. It took John awhile to convince Sherlock not to put the severed head in the photo. John smiled warmly at the picture in his hands. God, how he missed that madman. He hadn't known how important Sherlock was to him until he had seen his heart fall off of that building. No, John thought, I am not going to cry again, it's been three years damn it, it shouldn't affect him. His eyes, however, had other ideas.

He was at first surprised to feel the wetness on his cheeks, he hadn't cried once for Sherlock since the day he had joined the army. After hastily wiping them away he tucked the photo back in his jacket and strode out of the tent.

* * *

The darkness was suffocating, Sherlock thought to himself. It was absolutely dull here now that John was gone. Three years and no cases whatsoever. Lestrade and his force were completely useless, more than ever now. There came a sudden knock at his door.

"John-" he stopped mid-sentence, remembering that John wasn't here anymore, and he could never come back. He rose slowly to answer the door, not without first tying a scarf around his eyes.

* * *

There had been another fog near London, and John's squad was taken out of Afghanistan to check it out. Stepping of the plane he had expected to see a man in a billowing coat running towards him to recount all the murders that had happened while John was gone. But there was no one. John straightened his back and walked down the tarmac. If anyone had noticed the slight wetness in his eyes, they didn't mention it.

Being near London sent chills up his spine.

He took out the photo and wondered how anyone could have been this happy. From his hotel room he could see London. Yellow caution tape bordered the black fog surrounded the city, making it impossible to see if there was still anyone in there. He was reluctant to be near, but at the same time he felt the energy around the swirling mass pulling him in. He could barely see the sun, it was encompassed by the black storm clouds that had become a constant around London. John got ready for bed, going through the routine of showering and brushing his teeth. As he went to turn out the light he thought he saw the image of a man in a billowing coat, but when he blinked the man was gone.

* * *

As the dim afternoon light faded into pitch darkness, Sherlock stood at the edge of the fog, his blue scarf still wrapped around his eyes. He glanced in the direction of where he believed John to be, silently warning him against coming here. Then he turned and dissolved back into the mist.

* * *

_Sherlock and John were chasing a criminal. He already knew how this would end. He has had many dreams like this before, but still, this one felt odd. They chased the criminal until they had cornered him in an alleyway. Slightly panting, John pulled out his __handgun and pointed it at the man. Sherlock was already on the phone with Lestrade, who was late as usual. Before John could react, the man pulled out a gun and aimed it at Sherlock. But unlike his other dreams, John leapt to push Sherlock out-of-the-way. He felt a searing pain in his back, he had been shot. He fell to the ground, Sherlock looming over him and sobbing out his name. He grabbed John's gun and calmly shot the man between the eyes without even blinking. Sherlock leaned over John as he was dying and kissed him, tears streaming down his cheeks._

John woke up(as usual) screaming and covered in sweat. This dream had been different. All of his other dreams involved Sherlock dying. And he had never _kissed_ Sherlock in his dreams either. Confused, John got up to take a shower. He glanced at the clock as he was walking to the bathroom. 3:00am, not bad, usually John couldn't even get this much sleep. He hadn't needed to during the war anyways. After he had turned on the shower and taken off his clothes, he stepped into the steaming water and let his mind relax. Strangely, his mind wandered to Sherlock. He imagined the kiss that they had shared in his dream. And he imagined more, what it would feel like, he wondered, to feel Sherlock's skin on his own? As realization settled over him he stopped and mentally slapped himself. What was he doing? This was _Sherlock_. He wasn't even alive anymore and John was _getting off _on him. Feeling disgusted with himself he stepped out of the shower to get dried off. That's when he noticed it. On the mirror, there was a note.

Don't go into the fog.

-SH

John stared at it for a moment, then took it as a cruel joke. One of his buddies must have put this in here to freak him out, he thought. Because, the first few months of him rejoining, he wouldn't stop talking about Sherlock. But as he looked closer at the handwriting, it was unmistakably Sherlock's. He took the post it off the mirror and took it to the other room. When he got to his jacket he searched for his picture. It wasn't there. John started to panic. He upturned everything in his room. Then he looked down at the note. With a sudden realization John threw on his clothes and ran out the door.

* * *

As he was running down the street he thought to himself. If Sherlock is telling me to not go into the fog, then that must be where he is, and he must need help. God, he's _alive_. Reaching the edge of the fog, he grew nervous. He had heard of many stories of the numerous people who went into London and never came out. Just as he was about to turn away a familiar voice spoke out.

"John?"

* * *

"John?" The question slipped out of the geniuses mouth. He knew it was wrong for him to send someone to give John the note, but he had to keep John safe. The idiot who put the note there had also taken John's photo, the one that was currently tucked inside of Sherlock's coat.

"Sherlock? Is that really you? Or is it the fog messing with me?" John's voice sounded pleading, Sherlock didn't want to cause John any more harm than he had done already.

"Yes John, It's me." An audible sigh of relief came from the other side.

"Well, ok then, will I be coming in or will you be coming out?"

"Neither."

"What?" John's voice cracked slightly with surprise.

"Well I can't come out and, as the note clearly states, you are not coming in." He added a silent _obviously_.

"Well that's too bad then," John said, "But I guess it's too late now." Sherlock spun around and felt John's warm chest. _No, no,_ _no _this could not be happening.

"John," Sherlock croaked, "Please tell me that you are not right in front of me."

"Well it's sort of hard to see with all this fog but-"

"Close your eyes John, _now_."

"O-ok." Sherlock grabbed John's hand and led him through the smoke to where he knew 221 Baker Street was. He rushed John inside and pushed him against the wall. Sherlock took off his scarf and looked at him. He checked for injuries or any sign that he was possessed.

"Oi, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John inquired as he slowly opened his eyes, a blush creeping up his cheeks. Sherlock didn't answer, just pulled him up the stairs to 221B. Once he shut the door, Sherlock shoved John onto the couch.

"Stay here," he growled, "Unless you want to get yourself killed." He turned to leave, grabbing his scarf and tying it over his eyes on the way out. Without saying anything else, he shut the door behind him.

* * *

**Hello everyone! This is my first published story so tell me what you think. Please don't be mean because I wouldn't be mean to you. Love you all!**

**Reviews are ****welcome!**


	2. Chapter 2

John sat on the couch, waiting for Sherlock to come back and explain everything. What felt like hours later, John heard the doorbell ring. He got up, stiff from lying on the couch for so long. Just as he was about to open the door, an agitated Sherlock burst into the room.

"Bloody hell!" John yelled.

"John!" he exclaimed, his face lit up for a moment, then went back to its steeled expression. He took his scarf from over his eyes and flung it across the room. Then he went to the kitchen to do another experiment, no doubt. But, minutes later, Sherlock came out with two mugs of tea. Surprised, John didn't take the mug, just in case it was contaminated with something.

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and set John's mug down on the coffee table. He leaned back and rested his head on the back of the couch. Sherlock deduced that John had been back in the army, _he couldn't stay away_, Sherlock thought. During this time John had numerous girlfriends, none of which he had been with for very long. _Typical_, he noted.

* * *

It was getting late, and John would be missed tomorrow when his squad convened to search for survivors. He could tell them that Sherlock was alive. He could save him. John got up to leave when Sherlock leapt and grabbed his arm.

"John, you can't leave." Sherlock stated in his matter-of-fact way, his pale grey eyes boring holes into John's skull.

"And why the hell not?" John questioned incredulously. Why didn't Sherlock want John to leave? Didn't he want to be rescued?

"Because-" Sherlock paused, a flicker of emotion crossed his face, but it was gone before John could identify it. "If you go out, you have exactly 24 hours before your insides turn to liquid."

"But then how did you put that note on my mirror?"

"_Obvious_ John, I sent someone who was willing." Apparently that was not the right answer, because John's face went completely livid.

"You sent an innocent person to _die _just so you could send me a note?" John's voice cracked at the end of his sentence, clearly distressed. Taking one look at John Sherlock wrapped him in a hug. John opened and closed his mouth, no words coming out. Sherlock just held him there for a moment, then he held him at an arm's length and stared hard into his eyes.

"I would _never_ force someone to do something like that John, the man who did so volunteered. His name was Mr. Doyle. The rest of his family had been killed by the fog, and he was all alone. He came to me as he had heard me inquire about taking the note to you. He said that he had nothing to live for so he would take it. Forgive me John." The last part he had whispered so softly that John almost missed it. But it was there. John patted Sherlock's shoulder and sat down. He took a sip of the surprisingly not lethal tea that was now getting cold.

* * *

During the time John had been gone Mrs. Hudson had filled John's old room with heavy boxes that would take days to move. Sherlock insisted that John use his bed, he didn't use it much anyways. John collapsed into the bed, sleep overtaking him almost completely.

When he awoke, the first thing he noticed was that there was something warm pressed up against his back. Then the memories of yesterday flooded back into his head. He tried to turn around but was pinned by long gangly legs. During the night Sherlock had come in to sleep and had pinned John in his sleep. John grinned and closed his eyes again.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to find that his legs had entangled with John while he slept. Slightly embarrassed, he tried to slowly extract himself, but somewhat unsuccessfully. John stirred and turned to look at Sherlock. Their faces were inches apart. Sherlock saw John blush and move back slightly. Sherlock took his legs back from where they were tangled with John's and got up to take a shower.

John decided to go and make tea. As he was boiling the water Sherlock came out wearing just a towel. Usually it wouldn't have bothered John, but lately he couldn't control how he was feeling, so embarrassment crept up his spine. If Sherlock had noticed he didn't comment, instead he plopped down at the table and started fiddling with whatever experiment he was currently working on. John poured their tea and set Sherlock's down next to him. There was a sudden loud thump from downstairs and both men sprinted towards the door, John grabbed his handgun before leaping down the stairs after Sherlock. The door of 221 had been blown apart, leaving a gaping hole that was being filled with the black fog. But now in the light John could see grotesque faces upon the smoke. The faces were slowly driving him insane. Sherlock covered John's eyes with his hand and dragged him back upstairs.

He slammed the door behind them and then Sherlock pushed John's chair with the Union Jack pillow against the door. The sound of pounding was the only sound in the flat, John frozen with fear and Sherlock deep in thought. Sherlock raced towards his bedroom, leaving John to stand awkwardly in the center of the room. Minutes later, Sherlock came back holding a red scarf.

"Whenever you step foot outside of this door, put this on." he commanded, his voice hardened. john stepped forwards and carefully grasped the silken scarf in his hands. He put it in his back pocket, he might have to rush outside again, he thought.

"Sherlock, how am I supposed to see?" he asked.

"You're not." Sherlock answered. He then proceeded to waltz to the window and stare, or rather glare, out the window. John went to stand next to him, looking sadly at the thick darkness outside. As they stood together, fingers barely touching, they watched the darkness swirl outside their flat.

* * *

_Up in his castle in the sky, a figure sat in an elegant chair, a crown perched upon his skull. If you looked through the gloom that stuck to every surface, you would see an astounding sight. This was no ordinary person. This man was wearing a slightly blood spattered Westwood suit. His face half skull and half flesh. An eyepatch was placed over the empty socket on the skull side of his face. If this man were to smile his devious smile then you would see the remnants of flesh stuck in between unreasonably sharp teeth. The man took out a handkerchief and lightly dabbed his mouth. He turned to the towering figure to his right. A military man, by the look of it, scars littering his brutal face. But even though the man in Westwood seemed weak compared to the military man, he visibly flinched when Westwood's gaze landed upon him. _

_"Sir." the military man said, "Do you need anything?"_

_"Well," the other man said in an irish accent, his voice resonating across the sparsely furnished room, "You could clean up this _mess_, Moran." The man pointed to the corner of the room where an elderly woman lie, her throat torn open and her clothes stained with red blood. The military man, Moran, went over to the limp body of the woman and dragged her from the room. The man in Westwood grinned his sardonic smile as he picked up a scepter and gracefully sat himself down on his throne. _

_"It's good to be king!" he shouted to himself, the frightening grin plastered on his face._

* * *

**Hello everyone! This is my first published story so tell me what you think. Please don't be mean because I wouldn't be mean to you. Love you all!**

**Reviews are ****welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

A figure stood outside of 221 Baker Street. From Sherlock's point of view he could just make out the most obvious details. _Male, about six feet tall, in his thirties_. He squinted hard, unable to see more than that because of the blasted fog. Getting frustrated, he spun away from the window, pulling John towards the kitchen. He told John who was outside the flat, watching as his eyes grew wide. John went to the window and peered outside.

"Sherlock, there's no one there." John said. Sherlock went to the window, and he immediately saw the man again, this time closer to the door. He turned to John, glanced at him a moment, and pulled the red scarf from John's back pocket. John started in surprise as Sherlock quickly tied the scarf around his eyes.

"Sherlock-" John gulped as Sherlock's hand brushed against his face. Sherlock stilled, his hand still lightly touching his face. John couldn't see, and that made him nervous, it also heightened his senses. He could hear Sherlock's uneven breathing and he could practically feel his heightened heartbeat. John was confused, could this be true? _No_, Sherlock was married to his work, he couldn't love anyone. He was a sociopath, he said so himself. But still, John was taken completely off guard when he felt one of Sherlock's fingers brush against his lower lip. Then, as quickly as it came, it left. Stunned, John stood where he was.

"John, are you going to move away from the window or not?" Sherlock's voice sounded from across the room. Moving blindly, John walked over to the couch and sat down. He ended up sitting flush with Sherlock. Embarrassed, John slid over slightly, moving his thigh away from Sherlock's. John sat in silence, listening as he heard Sherlock go into his mind palace.

"Sherlock," John said after about an hour of sitting on the couch, "Why do I have this scarf tied around my eyes?"

"Protection John." Sherlock said in his matter-of-fact way. Not content with the answer, John prodded him some more.

"But why would I need it in the flat? I thought you said it was safe. Are you even wearing yours?" Sherlock sighed in agitation. He slowly got up from the couch and started pacing.

"For your information John, you cannot see the man that is clearly outside of 221. This means that if that person were to come into our flat you would not be able to see him. Therefore, you need to use your other senses, hence the scarf over your eyes. No, I am not wearing mine because I can see the man clearly and do not need to wear it." John pondered Sherlock's answer for a moment, then he huffed in amusement.

"What are you laughing about John?" Sherlock said, clearly agitated. John turned to Sherlock, the glint of amusement in his eyes hidden under the scarf.

"Well Sherlock, you don't know if the figure is really there or it's just a figment of your imagination." Sherlock stopped pacing and walked up to John. Putting his arms on either side of the doctor, he glared at the scarf covering his eyes. John felt their proximity and he inched his face away.

"John," Sherlock said in an enraged whisper, "I do not _imagine _things. In fact, I have been told by many that I do not have an imagination."

"Just like they say you don't have a heart." John whispered. Sherlock looked at him, stunned. It was true that everyone had said he didn't have a heart. But John and Moriarty had figured that out before he did. He turned away from John and started pacing again. There was a sudden knock at 221B. After the first floor has been wiped out by the fog, Joh had expected that no one would come to the door. As John got up to go answer the door Sherlock shoved him back down. He then went to the door and peered through the peep-hole. He saw The man from outside standing in the doorway. Sherlock's earlier deductions had been right. The man was about thirty-six and he was six-foot one. His brown hair was cut short Like John's after he came home from Afghanistan. His stance showed that he was definitely a military man. The man was here to take them somewhere, alive and unhurt. Turning back to John for a moment, he pulled the chair away from the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked, fear lacing his voice. Sherlock didn't answer, instead he opened the door to the flat. The man outside stepped in and surveyed the room. John stood up and Sherlock went over and grabbed his sleeve.

"You're here to take us to Moriarty." Sherlock said, his voice not betraying the nervousness inside his gut. The man nodded and turned to leave. Sherlock pulled John's sleeve, but John stayed where he was, rooted to the spot.

"Sherlock, I am not going with you until you take my bloody blindfold off so I can see who we are going to be following to God knows where!" Sherlock slowly took off the blindfold. John immediately noticed their proximity and how Sherlock's breath tingled on his lips. Sherlock stepped out of the way of the door and what John saw almost made him gasp. There was a man, or what had the basic details of a man. His skin had turned grey and was peeling off his body like the bark on a withering tree. His eyes were sunken into his skull and they shone a fearful red. One corner of his head had been bashed in, showing a skull void of a brain. What had filled that void were maggots and worms, writhing inside the safety of the man's head. His nose was completely gone, in place of that were two oxygen tubes that wrapped around to the back of the man's body. When the man grinned it showed a mouth with one tooth, black and rotting along with the rest of the man. Sherlock noticed his fear and sighed.

"I told you not to take off the blindfold John, he is making you see what he wants you to see, that's not truly him."

"Well then what if your version is wrong?" John asked, watching the decrepit man from the corner of his eye. Sherlock gave him a stern look before tying the scarf back over his eyes.

"I'm never wrong John." He said, almost in a whisper. Without saying anything else Sherlock grabbed John's hand and led him out the door.

* * *

_The king on his throne. The consulting criminal has risen again. And this time, there will be a body count._


End file.
